


A Court Of Masks

by illyrianinterrasen



Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas, MAAS Sarah J. - Works
Genre: Dunno how long this will be, F/M, I know i marked it as violent but that hasn't happened yet so we'll see, Not Canon Compliant, Phantom of the Opera - Freeform, Phantom of the Opera AU, find me on tumblr, what the hell should I put in these tags?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-03
Updated: 2018-04-05
Packaged: 2019-02-10 03:30:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12903015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/illyrianinterrasen/pseuds/illyrianinterrasen
Summary: An ACOTAR AU set in the Phantom of the Opera world, based on the movie/musical and the book. This is also on Tumblr under the same username."Rhysand gazed down on the stage from his box. Sitting next to him is his cousin Mor, dressed in sumputous red, and his half-brothers, Cassian and Azriel. The dramatic overture begins, the red curtains part, and a woman in a white gown is revealed. She’s quite possibly the most stunning person he’s ever seen. Multi-pointed stars cover her golden brown hair. Rhys can’t escape the feeling he knows her. Then she opens her mouth, and he realizes exactly who she is.Feyre.Feyre Archeron.He thought he’d never see her again."





	1. Overture

_  
Paris, 1905_

_“Lot 665. A papier-mâché musical box in the shape of a of a barrel-organ. Attached, the figure of a monkey in Illyrian robes playing the cymbals. This item, discovered in the vaults of the theatre, ladies and gentlemen. Still in working order,” says the portly auctioneer._  
_The elderly viomte, his white hair once blue black, and the man, one eye horribly scarred, exchange glances._  
_“Showing here,” says the porter, winding the box.  
“May I start at twenty francs? Fifteen, then? Fifteen I am bid.” _

_A flurry of bids ensue, the Count and the man desperately attempting to outbid each other._

_“Sold, for thirty francs to the Vicomte de Ètoile. Thank you, sir.”_

A collector's piece indeed . . .  
every detail exactly as she said . . .

Will you still play,  
when all the rest of us are dead?  
_  
“Lot 666, then: a chandelier in pieces. Some of you may recall the strange affair of the Phantom of the Opera: a mystery never fully explained. We are told ladies and gentlemen, that this is the very chandelier which figures in the famous disaster. Our workshops have repaired it and fitted up parts of it with wiring for the new electric light, so that we may get a hint of what it may look like when re-assembled. Perhaps we can frighten away the ghost of so many years ago with a little illumination. Gentlemen?”_

__

_Dust flies though the air as the men use ropes to pull the chandler up. Layer by layer, it rises into the air, the lights illuminating not only the foyer of the opera house, but memories the Vicomte de Ètoile would rather forget.  
Far above, a man with piercing green eyes and a masked face looks down on them all. _


	2. Think Of Me

Paris, 1870

The expansive stage is full of singers and ballerinas singing and dancing. Stage hands rush across and behind the stage, holding ladders and pots of paint. One bumps Feyre, almost dumping chartruse paint on her barely finished cotume. She shoots him a death glare.

“Hear the drums - Hannibal comes!” sings the cast.

Monsieur Suriel, the repetiteur, starts to argue with Jurian. Unnoticced by them, striding down the center aisle is Monsieur Vanserra, owner of the Opéra Populaire, smirking more cruelly than usual. Following him are two men and a red haired woman.  
“This way, gentlemen, this way. Rehearsals, as you see, are under way, for a new production of  
Chalumeau's “Hannibal"."

M. Vanserra calls, “Ladies and gentlemen, some of you may already, perhaps, have met M. Bron, M. Hart, and his bethrothed Mme. Thanatos…” They climb onto the stage via the side stairs.  
M. Suriel interrupts, “I'm sorry, M. Lefevre, we are rehearsing. If you wouldn’t mind waiting a moment?” He leaves no room for arguement.  
“My apologies, M. Suriel. Proceed, proceed…"  
“Thank you, monsieur, ”’Sad to return…’ Signor …” he prompts. The rehersal continues.

“M. Suriel, our chief repetiteur. Rather a tyrant, I’m afraid, but excellent at what he does.” whispers M. Vanserra. “Signor Jurian Piangi, our principal tenor,” he continues, indicating the man in question. Feyre notices Jurian looks noticably paler, one hand clenched. Mme. Thanatos gives him a saccrine smile, fingering a stange necklace clasped around her neck. The necklace’s charm looks rather a lot like a finger bone, though it’s difficult for Feyre to tell from this distance. “And that is Ianthe Carlotta, our soprano.”

“Gentlemen, please! If you would kindly move to one side?” says Madame Amren, smacking her cane on the stage. No one seems to know her last name (except perhaps herself), or how she got the job. Her silver eyes discouage any questions from the curious. They move aside, and M. Vanserra continues to regale the vistors with names and descriptions of the cast members.

“Who's that girl, Vanserra?” asks one of the men.

“Her? Alis Giry, Madame Amren’s adopted daughter. Promising dancer, M. Hart, most promising.”  
Trying to covertly watch the new arrivals and dance at the same time proves to be a mistake, and Feyre steps out of place. Seeing her, Amren bangs her cane again.  
“Archeron! Concentrate, girl!”

“Archeron? Curious name.” comments M. Bron.

“It’s Greek.” says Vanserra.

“Any relation to the violinist?” 

“His daughter, I believe. She sometimes helps paint the sets.”  
Mme. Thanatos’s cruel eyes meet Feyre’s, and a chill runs down Feyre’s spine. 

“The trumpeting elephants sound hear, Romans, now and tremble! Hark to their step on the ground hear the drums! Hannibal comes!” The cast finishs the chrous. Vanserra claps his hands for silence.  
“Ladies and gentlemen, may I have your attention, please? As you know, for some weeks there have been rumours of my imminent retirement. I can now tell you that these are all true and  
it is my pleasure to introduce to you the two gentlemen who now own the Opera Populaire, M. Bron and M. Hart.”  
There is some polite applause, and Ianthe curtises.  
“Gentlemen, Signora Ianthe Carlotta, our leading soprano for five seasons now. And this is Jurian Piangi, our tenor.” Vanserra says.

“If I remember rightly, Elissa has a rather fine aria in Act Three of "Hannibal". I wonder, Signora, if, as a personal favour, you would oblige us with a private rendition?” comments M. Bron. 

Serveral cast members shoot him glares promising slow death as she begins to sing, walking a few steps forward. As she starts to hit the crescendo, she tips her head back, and the top of the wig and its attached headdress are in imminent danger of slipping completely off as she tips her head back, revealing the moon tattoo high on her forehead. Several ballerinas giggle. Above, a set piece starts to slide. It crashes down on the scarlet train of her skirt, she trips forward, and at once starts screaming.  
“The Phantom of the Opera!”  
“The Opera Ghost is here.”  
are some of the horrified and excited exclaimations of the cast. Feyre and Lucien exchange looks. 

“Signora! Are you all right? Attor! Where is Attor?” says Vanserra angrily. He directs this up at the catwalks in the top of the stage, hidden to the audience.  
Joself Attor finally appears up on the catwalk, holding a length of rope.

“Attor! For God's sake, man, what's going on up there?”  
“Please monsieur, don't look at me: as God's my witness, I was not at my post. Please monsieur! There's no one there: and if there is, well then, it must be a _ghost_. . .” he says mockingly, leering down at them. Several dancers twitter in fear. 

“These things do happen.” says M. Hart to Carlotta.

“Si! These things do happen! Well, until you stop these things happening, this thing does not happen!” She storms off stage, her faux Spainish accent slipping as much as her headdress.

Ianthe enjoyed pretening she was Spanish, despite how obvious it was when her English accent slipped though when she was impassioned… which was often. “How much do you want to bet she’ll come back?” said Lucien. “Thirty francs says she won’t,” returns Feyre at once. 

“I don't think there's much more to assist you, gentlemen. Good luck. If you need me, I shall be in Frankfurt.” says Vanserra smugly, and he walks away. The cast look anxiously at their new managers, some with distinct dislike. “I’m sure she’ll come back,” says M. Bron comfortingly, though he exchanges a worried glace with his business partner. “I can’t wait for you to pay me,” snickers Lucien. Amren pushes past the dancers to the forefront.

“You think so, messieurs? I have a message, sir, from the Opera Ghost.” Amren holds out a letter closed with a dark green seal. Some of the ballearinas twitter and glace around in fear, Feyre and Lucien smirking at them. Mme. Thanatos looks up, sharply, all attention at once on Amren.

“Mother Mary, you're all obsessed!” exclaims M. Bron

“He merely welcomes you to his opera house and commands you to continue to leave Box Five empty for his use and reminds you that his salary is due.”

“His _salary_?”

“Monsieur Vanserra paid him twenty thousand francs a month. Perhaps you can afford more, with the Vicomte de Ètoile as your patron.”  
The cast is suprised by this bit of news, though not that Amren knows it before them; she always knows everything.  
“Madame, I had hoped to have made that particular announcement myself.”

“Will the Vicomte be at the performance tonight, monsieur?”

“In our box,” he says reluctantly.

“Madame, who is the understudy for this role?”

“Understudy, monsieur? Understudy? There is no understudy for Ianthe!” cuts in M. Suriel.

“Feyre Archeron could sing it, sir,” says Amren, undaunted. The cast parts, revealing Feyre in the back.

“A chorus girl? How ridiculous!”

“She's been taking lessons from a great teacher.”

“Who?”

“I don't know, sir . . .” says Feyre uneasily. Bron and Hart start to argue, and Mme. Thanatos gives Feyre an apraising look.  
“Let her sing for you, monsieur. She has been well taught,” interrups Amren.

“From the beginning of the aria then, mam’selle,” says Suriel.

“Think of me think of me fondly, when we've said goodbye. Remember me once in a while -please promise me you'll try,” begins Feyre.

————  
Rhysand gazed down on the stage from his box. Sitting next to him is his cousin Mor, dressed in sumputous red, and his half-brothers, Cassian and Azriel. The dramatic overture begins, the red curtains part, and a woman in a white gown is revealed. She’s quite possibly the most stunning person he’s ever seen. Multi-pointed stars cover her golden-brown hair. Rhys can’t escape the feeling he knows her. Then she opens her mouth, and he realizes exactly who she is. 

Feyre.

Feyre Archeron.

He thought he’d never see her again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> M.” is the abreiviation of Monsier and “Mme.” is the abbrivation of madame (I’m too lazy to type the full word every time). Thanatos is the Greek god of Death. (yes, I know, so extra) 
> 
> Find me on Tumblr!  
> https://www.tumblr.com/blog/illyrianinterrasen


	3. Angel of Music

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You can _pry_ excessive italizing from my _cold, dead,_ hands, _okay_?

_“Bravi, bravi, bravissimi . . .”_

A knock on the door shakes Feyre out of her reverie. A white rose with a gold ribbon tied around the long stem sits on her dressing table. She answers the door, letting Lucien in. “Who _is_ tutoring you?” he asks mischiviously.   
“I wasn’t lying when I said I don’t know, Lucien,” she responds, a bit peevishly. “Do you remember last year when they renovated and I finally got a dormintory room all to myself?” Lucien nods. “That night, I heard a voice. Just a voice; there was no-one in the room. He asked me if I wanted to learn to sing, and I said yes. Then the next night and for months he taught me to sing. He’s almost like an angel of music. Sometimes, no matter where I am in the opera, he’ll talk to me. Sometimes I think I’m going crazy, but then I’ll hear his voice again.” 

_That’s not even the half of it_ , she thinks.   
She hasn’t mentioned that she might have guessed one of his names- or rather, titles. She hasn’t told Lucien that she wants to talk to him vis-a-vis just once; that she wants to know his real name. Despite the fact she knows him- his moods, his voice, his personality, she’s never even seen his face. 

Lucien opens his mouth to comment, but the door creaks open. Madame Amren bursts in. “Out, Lucien, you should be in your own dormintory.” As Lucien turns to leave he gives Feyre a pointed ‘we will talk about this later’ look.   
“You did very well, my dear,” said Amren. Praise from her was few and far between, so Feyre knew she meant it. “And I’ve been asked to give you this,” she continued, giving Feyre a folded piece of paper. “I’ll see you tomorrow, dear.”

In elegant handwriting, the note says simply: 

**_Feyre, darling?_**  
————  
 _Unidentified European Coast, many years earlier_

_A small girl runs down a beach, spashing in the waves. She wears a red scarf loosely wound about her neck. Far behind her, her two sisters walk down the beach, far more ladylike, arm in arm. Ahead, a boy perhaps a year older walks in front of a man and woman who are arguing, a young girl in her arms. The harsh wind starts up again, pulling the girl’s scarf with it. She cries out, and the boy looks up, and races after it, diving into the waves. The two adults are so wrapped up in thier argement, they fail to notice him. His head pops out above the surface, the now sodden scarf caught in his hand. He smiles shyly, and gives her the scarf. “What’s your name?” he asks. “Feyre. What’s yours?”_  
————

“Richard, I think we've made quite a discovery in Miss Archeron!” says Bron to Hart, Thantos, and Rhysand, who is carring a boquet of jasmine and purple flowers he can’t identify. They stop outside a dressing room.  
“Here we are, Monsieur le Vicomte.” Rhysand smiles charmingly.

“Gentlemen, if you wouldn't mind, this is one visit I should prefer to make unaccompanied.”

“As you wish, monsieur.” Hart and Bron look at each other with raised eyebrows. Thantos, instead, has a calculating look on her face.  
“They appear to have met before,” mutters Hart under his breath, as Rhysand knocks and lets himself in.

“Feyre Archeron, where is your scarf?”

“Monsieur?” she says, turning around.

“You can't have lost it. After all the trouble I took to get it. I was just fourteen and soaked to the skin . . .”

“Because you had run into the sea to get my scarf. Rhys! So it is you!” Feyre jumps up, and Rhys sweeps her up in a embrace. His citrus-sea smell surrounds them. He lets go of her, and she moves away and sits down at her dressing table. He offers her his trademark half smile.  
He’s gotten even more handsome since the last time she saw him (which was a while ago, admittedly).  
“Feyre, darling let her mind wander . . ."

“You remember that, too . . .” says Feyre

". . . Feyre, darling, thought: Am I fonder of dolls . . ."

". . . or of faeries, of stars . . ."

". . . or of riddles, of paint. . ."

“Those picnics in the attic . . .”  
". . . or of chocolates . . ."

“Father playing the violin as we read to each other dark stories about assassins and queens . . .”

 

“No, what at I love best, Feyre said, is when I'm asleep in my bed, and the Angel of Music sings songs in my head!"

". . . the Angel of Music sings song in my head!” they finish together.

 

“Father said, ‘When I'm in heaven, child, I will send the Angel of Music to you’. Well, my father is dead, Rhys, and I have been visited by the Angel of Music.”

“But of course.”  
A pause.  
“Would you consider having supper with me and some of my family?” He sounds almost… hesitant.   
She’s instantly tempted.

“No, Rhys, the Angel of Music is very strict.”

“I won’t keep you up late… unless you want me to…” he says with ersatz flirtatiousness.

“No, Rhys. . .” He raises his eyebrows as if to say _‘are you sure’_?’”

Surely one night of fun wouldn’t hurt…..  
“Alright, alright.” 

“I’ll be back in two minutes Feyre, darling. I’m just collecting my family and coat.” He gives her a look, smirking. “You might want to change. I mean, you could go in your dressing gown….”

“Out!” says Feyre, playfully pushing him out. He leaves, laughing.  
———  
Feyre had just finshed buttoning the top layer of her lavender evening dress when all the candles blew out.   
A voice resonates from the walls.   
“Keep away from him.” He sounds- _angry? fearful? concerned?_ She can’t decide.

Suddenly dreamy and spellbound, Feyre freezes.  
“Angel? Why? He’s a childhood fri-” 

Interrupting her, he says, “Rhysand is not what he appears. He is-“ A pause, as though he is searching for the right words.  
“Dangerous,” he finally says, his voice softening.

Feyre decides it’s time. She finally gathers herself up to ask two questions she has been meaning to ask for weeks.  
“Why can’t I see your face? Are you the Phantom of the Opera?”  
There is a long pause. A long enough pause that Feyre begins to wonder if he’s left.

“Look at the mirror,” is all he says.

The hazy image of a male becomes discernible behind the mirror. He steps closer, his image sharpening.  
His face is half obsured behind a ornate, forest green mask; he wears a cloak with a muted shade of green, and has longish golden hair. Despite the obstuction of his features, she notices he is handsome and probably in his early twenties. He stretches his hand out, palm up.

Feyre walks towards the glit-edged mirror.  
———  
Rhys walks down the now dim hallway to the dressing room door. As he nears it, two voices fill the corridor. He tries the door; it is locked.

“Whose is that voice . . .? Who is that in there . . .? Feyre?” He rattles the knob once more to no avail.   
———

Feyre grasps the Angel’s white-gloved hand, and steps into the mirror.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Notes: Why is Tamlin the Phantom? The phantom is possessive and controlling. I know there’s that whole “music of the night thing” but I though Rhys was more like Raoul other than that anyway (self-sacrificing, especially at the end). 
> 
>  
> 
> the next chapter will probs be longer 
> 
> Find me on Tumblr: https://illyrianinterrasen.tumblr.com


	4. The Phantom of the Opera

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long to get out. Life has been crazy! The next chapters should be out sooner.

_Some weeks ago_  
A woman clad in blood red sits in a leather, throne-like armchair. The room is dark, lit only by the coals of a once roaring fire. She admires a new diamond engagement ring as a man with dark hair enters the room. The dying embers reflect off the large stone.  
“Have you any progess on finding him?”  
He hesitates, and she at once guesses his responce. 

_“If you do not find Tamlin soon, Asteria will certainly be less… alive the next time you see her.”_  
Fear creeps into the man’s face.  
“I’ll find him.” 

_“You’d better.”_  
She gestures a dismissal with her other hand which also has a ring: a copper band with an eye engraved atop it.   
———

_A gaggle of ballerinas surround Josef Attor, in one of the communal dormitories for the newer members of the opera’s cast. On one of the whitewashed walls is a framed pastel painting, hanging askew. One of his arms is around the neck of a girl, the opposite hand holds a rope lasso._  
Behind him, the ballet mistress watches to see what more he’ll say. He’s too drunk to notice her.  
“And a hole, where his nose… never grew!” She steps forward; fury blazes in her silver eyes. 

_“Josef Attor, hold your tongue!” Amren slaps him, hard, wrenching the lasso out of his hand. She tosses the lasso up, around his neck, and tightens it._

_“Keep your hand at the level of you eyes!” She pushes him out, slamming the door behind him. All the ballerinas recieve a withering death glare.  
“All of you should know better than to listen to that fool!” she says, beginning to lecture the unfortunate ballerinas.  
But behind the pastel painting hanging on the wall,_ she _watches._  
———  
The tunnel inside of the mirror is damp and musty, lit irregularly with torch scones. From up close, she can see the forest green mask has gold decorative swirls and tiny emerald gemstones. At the end of the tunnel there is a narrow stone dock with a goundala-like boat attacted by a rope. He turns around, his cape swirling like the mist off the lake, and offers her his hand to help her into the goundala.  
They travel across the lake, and though a portcullis embedded in the rock. She is totally lost; if she was to try to find her way back she’d be unable to do so. They’ve yet to exchange a word, and though he’d unspokenly answered her questions, she now has many more. 

He helps her up the stairs carved into the rock to the area above the water. Around her is a long, curved desk strewn with sheet music, sketches, and written pages. Resting on it are quills, ink, and even a detailed minature model of the opera house. An ornate organ covers a large part of the walls. Red velvet curtains with gold tassels cover the walls, and a not-quite-obaque curtain separates this room from another cave-like room in the rock.   
He looks at her.   
“I imagine you have some questions.”  
“That’s a understatement.” A wry look from him. He offers her a set on a plush chair, which she accepts.  
“What is your name?”  
He walks around her to sit on the stool in front of the organ.  
“My name is Tamlin.”  
———  
They talk and talk for hours about topics ranging from her performance in Hannibal (“Absolutly stunning, Feyre.”) to the opera he’s writing (“I call it ‘Chords of Spring’”) to what jewels she prefers (“I do love sapphires.”). He even reads her some dirty sonnets he wrote when he got into an arugement with family member (who he won’t name or describe).While she learns much about him, he still refuses to tell her of his past.   
The chair has inticing softness, and her long day starts to catch up to her. With a yawn, her lids begin to droop. He gently picks her up and sets her on a bed. The last thing she remembers is the soft brush of his lips on her forehead as she desends into slumber.  
———  
Feyre awakes in a soft bed, atop the duvet. Consciousness comes slowly; sheer white curtains surround the bed. She sits up, and notices her dress is wrinkled. _How long have I been asleep?_ she wonders. Soft organ music floats though the curtains. Queitly, she walks out of the cave-like room into the larger chamber they’d spent last night in.

Facing away from her is Tamlin. He sits at once more at the organ, one hand on the keys, one clutching a quill, scribbling on a scrap of paper; he’s throughly distracted. Now is her chance.  
She carefully steps forward, careful to remain stealthy. She reaches forward, fingers skimming the edge of the mask-   
He seizes her her wrist, twisting it.  
“What’s under there is none of your business!”  
“Let go! You’re hurting me!” He releases her at once.  
“I am so sorry,”   
“But I’m sorry too, Tamlin. I should have respected your privacy.” He smiles reassuringly, pressing a box into her hand.  
“Let’s get you back upstairs. Those two fools running my theatre will be missing you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Asteria is the Greek Goddess of shooting stars (and Rhys’s sister)
> 
> Find me on tumblr! https://www.tumblr.com/blog/illyrianinterrasen


	5. Soprana's Demise

On the second tier of the foyer, she looks down on Bron and Hart. She leans on the marble railing, its ecru color a sharp contrast to her red gown. They argue, notes in their hands. The Comte de Etolie and the soprana, each with their own notes, enter from different directions and the arguing increases in tempo; the ballet instructor is not far behind. A few more minutes of listening reveals that the vanished soprana has returned.

“He is her lover!” says the soprana, her voice devoid of her usual Spanish accent. A peculiar expression crosses the comte’s handsome face.   
She wants to laugh at the irony. _Does he… love… her? How very entertaining!_  
She stands, straightening, and moves from her perch, to the top of the stairs. As she descends the stairs, the trail of her gown swishes behind her.

Perhaps she will have to _remove_ the comte from this… situation.  
———  
Amren removes her lock picks from the door of the dressing room, Lucien and Alis trailing behind her. They are searching for a clue as to Feyre’s location- despite Amren’s gruff façade, the girl has grown on her. Amren has several theories as to where she might be, though she’s not admitted it to anyone.   
The lock clicks, now unlocked.  
Amren steps in, first, and halts. Lucien and Alis gasp in unison as they look over her shoulders.  
Sprawled unconscious on the floor (where she certainly wasn’t several hours earlier) is Feyre. The half-sleeves of her dress do little to hide the darkening bruise on her wrist, which overlay half-moon nail marks. They’re probably from Ianthe; Amren makes a mental note to put something nasty in Ianthe’s perfume bottle. Lying next to her is a small, open velvet box; an emerald ring gleams on her middle finger, a note clutched in her hand. Amren crouches down and tugs the note from her curled fingers. It is in familiar handwriting, though she’s not sure from where.   
Written in an elegant scrawl on the scrap of paper is:  
 _This was my mother’s. I’d like you to have it.  
-T _  
———  
“Comte, this is my fiancé, Mme. Amarantha Thanatos,”   
Though he tries to hide it, a flicker of emotion crosses his face, an unreadable expression covering it at once.  
“Enchanté, mademoiselle,” But though he tries to hide it, a note of sarcasm enters his tone.  
She smiles with mocking coyness, batting her eyelashes.

In the background, Bron beseeches Ianthe.   
“Your public needs you.”

“We need you too,” interjects Hart.

“Would you not rather have your precious little ingenue?” she says, crossing her arms.

“Signora, no! The world wants you…”  
———  
Lucien and Feyre lurk behind the set. Ianthe storms backstage, surrounded by many people. One of her servants races behind her, holding sundry items. Another clutches her yappy dog. The entourage follows her as she moves though the theatre. As they get more desperate, they offer her expensive gifts and ever-more grandiloquent praise (most of which lacks verity). Several ballerinas beside them are collapsed with the giggles. To top it all off, Bron offers her a diamond necklace.

As they finally convince her, above, one of the set builders moons Ianthe, but she doesn’t notice, too consumed in her own ego. The cast serenades her, almost sardonically.   
Behind the set Feyre and Lucien laugh.

“Feyre?” asks a voice behind her. She turns. It’s Rhys.  
“Can we talk?” They move deeper backstage, where it is more private, away from Lucien and the ballerinas.  
But before she can say anything, he looks down and sees her wrist.   
Her bruised wrist.   
———  
“You wanted to speak with me?” says a crimson-haired woman.  
“I know the location of someone you’re looking for.“ says Ianthe.  
“Do tell.”  
———

Feyre turns to face him. But his attention is instantly captured by the bruise ringing her wrist. “Who did that to you.” 

Ever-so-gently, he reaches for her wrist, examining it.  
He is about to say something when-  
“ _Feyre_!” snaps Amren from somewhere nearby.   
“We are about to start!!!”  
“I have to go. I’ll talk to you later?” she says.  
As she turns and walks away, his attention alights on her other hand: a emerald ring adorns it.  
He recognizes it at once.

It’s… _Tamlin’s_?  
———-  
“Poor fool, he doesn't know! Ha-Ha-Ha- Ah! If he knew the truth, he'd never, ever go!” sings Ianthe and the onstage cast.  
 _ **“Did I not instruct that Box Five was to remain empty?”**_  
The audience and cast gasps.  
“He’s here! The Phantom of the Opera!” says Alis to Feyre.  
“It’s him,” she agrees.“Your part is silent, little toad!” snaps Ianthe to Feyre.   
She moves to the sidelines and one of her servants sprays a tonic in her mouth, which she believes will improve her singing.   
———  
 _“A toad? Perhaps it is you who is the toad, madame.”_  
———  
“Poor fool, he makes he laugh! Ah-croak-croak!” The audience gasps with laughter. Ianthe’s face flushes red under her white face paint. Feyre bites her lip to hide her laugh. It’s rather satisfying to see the haughty Ianthe taken down a few pegs. The cast on the edges of the stage are either trying snd failing to hide their laughter or look horrified. Hart signals a stagehand, who quickly pulls the curtain shut.   
He goes though it to talk to the audience. Bron seizes her wrist and drags her though.  
“…when the role of the Countess will be played by Miss Feyre Archeron. Meanwhile, we'd like to give you the ballet from Act Three of tonight's opera.” In the orchestra pit, M. Suriel frantically pages though his sheet music.

They hustle her offstage, into the waiting arms of Alis and Amren, who lead her into dressing room. As she walks in, she notices a white rose with a gold ribbon tied around it resting on the vanity.   
Before she can examine it more closely, Alis is dragging her behind the privacy screen. They undress her down to her undergarments. They then lace the corset of the countess dress and pile all the lacy pink layers on top. The corset of the pink gown is exceptionally tight; the skirts constricting. Feyre is having trouble breathing.   
She moves over to the vanity, sitting down. Amren hooks a paste-diamond necklace round her neck, and places paste-diamond earrings in her ears. 

Before they can paint her face or place the heavy, white, rose encrusted wig, there is a knock at the door.   
“Feyre?” says a familiar voice from outside.   
Amren snaps, “Not now.”  
Rhys half steps into the room.  
Feyre looks at her beseechingly. “Fifthteen minutes?”  
“Ten.”  
She stands up to go, and is half way to the door when Lucien bursts in. His Irish accent is stronger than usual as he exclaims:  
“He killed her!”  
———  
Ballerinas twirl across the stage, their costumes flowery and pastel. The background is a bucolic pasture.   
A decidedly less halcyon scene is present above, in the catwalks. There is a silent struggle between a phantom and a ill-fated sopana.  
Her mouth is gagged, or she would have screamed. The rope is tightened around her neck. The end secured to the wooden rails.  
“I’ll see you in hell, bitch.”  
Her last sensation: a push.  
Then the screams begin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come find me on tumblr: https://illyrianinterrasen.tumblr.com


End file.
